Hot Like Fire
by JuliaRuairc
Summary: Jim Moriarty takes Sherlock Holmes' birthday present out of someone else's pockets. (Part Two of Crystalized)


**AN: This was to be in honor of Sherlock Holmes' birthday, but obviously it's a bit late. Nevertheless. From this prompt: (**** .com) post/39813116479/thecivilwarparlor-items-in-lincol ns-pockets**** (Part 2 of Crystalized)**

The box was in the dining room of the 221b when Sherlock got back from his supposed birthday celebration. It was just sitting on the table like it belonged there. Like they gave gifts to each other or something.

"Fingers?" Sherlock mused jokingly, as he hung his coat on the hook.

"Not this time," Jim answered from Sherlock's chair.

Never in all his visits had Moriarty taken John's. It had annoyed Sherlock the first (and second and third) time Jim had stolen it. By now, though, he had come to expect it. Sometimes he'd make up some reason not to sit at the same time as the criminal so that Jim would be able to have first choice. Others, Sherlock would already be sitting when Jim arrived and he'd refuse to rise and greet his guest, so as not to relinquish his seat. In those times, Jim would wonder around Baker Street while they talked, poking at Sherlock's things, until he got bored with that and finagled the conversation into one that should be held on the couch or at the dining table ...or in Sherlock's bed. Apparently, he wouldn't be swayed even on Sherlock's birthday. Not that the detective really wanted the day recognized, but still the thought would count for something. Instead, the criminal had got him a blue box, that did not have fingers in it.

"How's your birthday been so far?" Moriarty asked, popping a small disgustingly sweet candy coated with sour flavored granulates into his mouth; (he was almost certain Harry had sent the package of them over as a souvenir from a vacation with her latest love). Sherlock didn't really want to talk about that. He had just huffed back from the ice cream parlor he'd been forced to by John. Things had been going fine there, that was until they were ambushed by Mycroft. It was out of character for the elder Holmes to show up without a clear ulterior motive and given the way the doctor was acting, Sherlock was fairly certain John had invited Mycroft. (He would have done better inviting Lestrade.) Needless to say Sherlock soon left, entrusting the doctor to entertain his brother.

"No different than last year, really. Well, aside from John pulling Mycroft by."

"Oh, John..." Moriarty said with fondness that was really not at all fond, as he watched Sherlock pick up the blue box. "That's for you."

"You shouldn't have," Sherlock sounded dubious at best and Moriarty rolled his eyes. The detective took the chair opposite.

"Open it before you complain, would you?"

"Do you want me to tell you what's in it?" Sherlock asked, shaking the box lightly.

Jim huffed a laugh, "Not quite. Just open it." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but undid the ribbon. Lifted the lid and upon looking inside pronounced:

"This is a box of junk."

"Astute," Moriarty's sarcasm weighed heavy, even as he raised his eyebrows and asked, "Really though?"

Sherlock reexamined the box's contents. There was a wallet, a mobile, a ring, a chain of keys, a package of cigarettes, a lighter, a semi-worn paper bag, and a pair of glasses in a case. No, these were the contents of someone's pockets. This was a puzzle.

"Tell me," Moriarty prompted, his tone slipping into something he knew always made the detective want to impress, "who did these items belong to?"

It wasn't much to go on, but Sherlock already had a few ideas. "You've taken a few items out, I assume."

"Obviously. Anything that would ruin the fun."

Sherlock flipped open the wallet. Its contents were stripped of all identification. There was a gym card, for a chain which only existed in a couple Outer Rim galaxies; a few receipts; an Osteron card; a couple other membership/club cards; and a library card and accompanying slips notifying the due date of books checked out. The dates on the receipts were all four years ago, so Jim had given him a cold case. Sherlock looked at the library slip again, noting the deceased had checked out some highly technical law books.

Apparently Sherlock's studied silence was wearing on the criminal because Moriarty let out a long-suffering sigh, probably to remind the detective of his presence. But it wasn't like Sherlock could forget Moriarty was sitting across from him. After all, this puzzle was relatively easy. It was the deduction, the performance, the showing-off, in front of his favorite audience that this box would allow which was the real gift. Sherlock liked to dance for Moriarty, as much as the criminal loved to watch him and he would need to think out-loud for that. He intended to, but at the moment, he didn't have anything to say, as he never liked to speculate. He was still quiet while he finished sifting through the wallet.

"Please, tell me you're not going to try and beat your last record, in _silence_," Moriarty grimaces.

"Why, you think I can't?" Sherlock feigns suspicion.

"Hardly, though the attempt would certainly make this less entertaining..."

"Oh, so I'm your evening's entertainment?"

"I don't see why not."

"And here I thought this was _my_ gift," the detective quips back at Moriarty's teasing before, listing his assertions out loud. "_She_," the detective stated with emphasis, neglecting to look at Jim's face for confirmation of the accuracy of his first deduction. "-lived in the Brestal galaxy."

Jim watches Sherlock's long fingers fish the keys out of the box. The detective examines them for a moment before pronouncing: "This newer key has the Mareno Corporation logo on it," The detective said referring to a developer of space stations, which mostly held flats and ports that ships could dock in over night to refuel. Their stations were the closest thing the outer rim got to suburban, off-planet. "So, she likely lived on one of their stations.

"These old style keys, however, haven't been used in construction for decades and were never used in space. Whatever these three go to are very old buildings. This was the key to her flat, so these are most likely the keys for her work. It's funny that she has these though because buildings on-planet have updated their locks, even most of those that have historical significance. Which speaks to her work's severe financial difficulties," the detective frowned as he moved on. "And there's no key to a ship or a garage to store it in. Which supports the claim that she commuted," to which Sherlock held up the Osteron card.

He moved on to the mobile which was dead, as expected. But Sherlock recognized the make.

"This model of mobile is about ten years old. But it's really well kept for it's age and this receipt is from four years ago, which could mean a number of things. Either she was really frugal, or she worked for the Federation, because we all know that only the Federation issues their staff equipment outdated by six years. Especially if you're in the Outer Rim like Brestal is."

Moriarty snorted. _So the latter._

"That explains the keys then," Sherlock quipped. Then continued: "And these library slips are from the law library next to the court house on Sirietta. These libraries don't check out books to those who aren't members of the law community. She'd have to have been a judge, a clerk, or a lawyer. And this receipt here is for a cafe on Brutiona, and unless I am sorely mistaken, it's a block and a half from their court house and popular with the judicial crowd."

"They have lovely scones," Jim pointed out. "But yes, quite popular during adjournment between hearings."

"Right. She would need reason to go to both. All the judges and clerks stay in the district they are elected or hired. So a lawyer then. Really only the lawyers of high-end private firms and the galactic appointed prosecutors or defense lawyers would be required to travel between the courts. She worked for the Federation, so she was the galactic prosecutor."

"Why the prosecution?" Jim interjected, playing the devil's advocate.

"The ring. You can see, she rarely took it off," the detective held up the golden colored band, as if from that distance Moriarty could see the evidence. "If she had to visit her clients in the prisons, they'd make her take it off when she went through security. Federation order 534. You remember that mess in Jacinbes."

Moriarty nodded. As if he could forget that massacre of a prison break. It changed screening procedures for the entire universe and all because they had let her keep her jewelry when she went for a conjugal visit. The criminal had to admire their creativity.

"Anyway, with her office on Sirietta, she would need to-" Sherlock stopped when Moriarty let out a small noise and pulled his face into a grimace. "What?"

"It was Brutiona," the criminal corrected. Then as the detective continued to frown at him, Jim explained what he thought should have tipped the detective off, "That Mareno space station she lived on is positioned a few parsecs from its rings. Less of a commute."

Sherlock hurumphed, grumbling, "Why would anyone huck all those books _on public transport_ half-way across a galaxy."

"Maybe there was a courier," the criminal suggested, amused.

Sherlock picked up the lighter. It looked like it had been pulled out of storage. He checked the level of lighter fluid in the zippo. He could see it had been used to light one pack already. Then he picked up the cigarettes. The pack was opened, but none of the cigarettes were missing.

"She'd already gone through one pack. She was interrupted, before she had a chance to smoke one of these. And the fact that she was using this," the detective held up the zippo. "-and not a disposable lighter, implied that she had smoked for a long enough time before to tire of buying new ones. So she'd been addicted, quit, and started back up again."

"How do you know she quit at all?"

"Speaking from experience, it is near impossible to keep up a smoking habit if you spend most of your time in Federation offices, especially if you don't have your own ship."

"You said these offices were on-planet," Moriarty pointed out shrewdly.

"True, but this brand was also popular about twenty years ago, not so much now though most stores still carry them. And there's no way anyone would recommend this brand now. So she knew what she was looking for. But what could have been worrying her so much that she felt the need to pick up a habit she kicked? Which brings us to this," Sherlock finally picked up the paper bag.

There was a stain on it. It was the right shade to be blood, but then with this much time having passed so did a lot of other things. He couldn't be certain without a proper analysis in a lab. However, given the other items in the box, he didn't think it would come to that (not like Jim would let him test it now anyway). He opened it up and sniffed inside. He could detect just the barest hint of ...worn currency.

This was by far the most interesting piece.

Barring the bag and smoking materials, these were all items of everyday use. They were effects a person would not willingly part with and the entire box lent to the idea that the owner was deceased. The bloody paper bag, in particular, was meant to lead him down that path. But this was a gift from Moriarty and he would abhor something so predictable as putting a deceased's belongings in a box and _guess what she did for a living._

There had to be some other piece to this for sure. After all, there were many other possibilities of how someone might be separated from their effects. _Brestal, four years ago, female prosecutor, scandal? _He wracked his memory for any news coverage of the Outer Rim at the time.

Suddenly everything fell into place.

"We all know the galactic prosecutor decides which cases the Federation will pursue to court and which to drop in each galaxy. Just the person to have in your back pocket if you're a crime boss. She could be very useful, if and when certain people integral to an operation were apprehended. While the galactic prosecutor might be a pivotal job, it doesn't really pay well. So whatever they offered, it would have been tempting. Except this looks like blood, so I would say that this was a buy-off gone bad..."

"Are you accusing someone of murdering a civil servant?" Jim asked in mock collusion.

"Oh, I couldn't do that, no."

"So the stain?"

"It's her blood, but she's not dead."

"I was wondering," Jim drawled.

"You shouldn't have been," Sherlock corrected lightening fast.

"Where is she?"

"Braka Prison," Sherlock stated effortlessly.

"Go on," Jim rolled his eyes, but continued smirking. "I know you're just _dying_ to tell me."

"Ali Burton was the former galactic prosecutor for Brestal and had been taking bribes from the local crime syndicate. While the galaxy's imperial courts are on Brutiona and Sirietta, _this_ receipt is for _this_ pack and from a chain of convenience stores found only on Chrote, which is 90 kilo-parsecs out of any area she would likely be commuting from or to. It also says that she paid for it on credit at 18:00. Clearly too late for a day visit or collecting testimonies for a case. So likely an illicit transaction was to take place, possibly picking up bribe-money.

"Assuming that she _did_ have money in this bag, and we know she did, there had to be some reason why she would choose to use traceable credit, over anonymous cash. As she would later be found to have been taking bribes for years, surely she must have known how conspicuous this would look. The receipt says she did not pay with cash at the convenience store. Which can only mean that the money in the bag was not for her to use freely.

"And the prescription of the glasses say she only wore them when she needed them to read something or see details. thus she was expecting to have to look closely at some documents. Something she wouldn't have to do at one of her under the table meetings with the crime bosses to get paid off. This was her paying someone else. Papers.

"She was worried the Federation was on to her, so she was running. And she _might_ have gotten away with it, if she hadn't gone into that convenience store for a second pack of cigarettes. Mrs. Burton was unfortunately at the wrong-place in the wrong-time and found herself in the middle of a robbery gone wrong. She was one of three casualties. The paramedics found the money when they were searching for her identification. Incited a galactic audit. You know the rest."

Jim nodded apathetically.

"You stole these out of the Braka confiscated holdings locker..." Sherlock stated with a slight grin, as he put the items back in the box. The detective wondered exactly how the criminal got a hold of them. He knew that Jim didn't like to get his hands dirty, but the precedent had been made before in matters concerning Sherlock..."Tell me did you go yourself or send someone?"

"Can't figure it out?" Jim returns, eyeing him. Sherlock imagines the criminal _had_ gone himself. After all it was clear, Moriarty was not the one who had organized Burton's papers. He can hear the criminal's affronted tone now if he deigned to ask, _You think I would have made arrangements to meet on _Chrote_? You think I am _that_ obvious? _But Jim always liked to add personal touches to his orchestrations, so Jim slipping on the uniform of one of the prison guards and stealing the items himself was a delightfully plausible scenario given their intended recipient. The detective smirked, then Sherlock removed the box from his lap, setting it on the side table.

"I'll be sending these back, you know."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Naturally, the gift was really just the puzzle..."

"Well, it was easy," Sherlock sighed, tossing the ribbon on the lid.

"Aren't they always?" Jim shifted with an air of commiseration.

"I thought you would give me something-"

"With a thrill of the chase?"

"-more hands on," Sherlock finished, fixing Jim with a look of disappointed expectation.

"Is _that_ what you wanted?" the criminal rose abruptly, crossing the short distance between chairs, until he was standing at Sherlock's feet and leaning over him. Jim practically growled: "Something more like this," as he moved in and pressed his lips against the detective's.

Sherlock hooked his fingers on Jim's belt loops pulling him closer and closer and the criminal had to prop one knee on the chair in order not to topple on the detective.

"Yes," Sherlock kept pulling Jim till he was practically sitting in the detective's lap. "Exactly like this." One of Jim's hands moved to tangle in the detective's hair guiding Sherlock's head, bringing their mouths together again, while his other was gripping the back of the chair, keeping his balance.

Like the many times they'd done this before, Sherlock quickly forwent breathing through his nose and forgot to breathe at all. But it wasn't like they found it a problem or that Jim was much better and they frequently found themselves needing to pull apart to grasp for air and pressing light breathy kisses on the other's lips until they were ready to start back up again.

Sherlock loosened the knot in Jim's tie, pulling so it hung sloppy exposing the buttons at his collar which Sherlock made quick work of undoing. Jim was pulling out the detective's shirt which had been tucked into his pants. Then his fingers were on Sherlock's skin and the detective only faltered a little.

Sherlock leaned out of the breath they'd been sharing to let his mouth trail down the criminal's exposed neck. Jim arced back, but instead of merely allowing the detective better access, the criminal pressed down, grinding his hips against Sherlock's in a slow revolution. The detective inhaled sharply against Jim's skin and he pulled the criminal to his lips again. Jim, grinning into their kiss, ground down quicker and his fingers skipped down the outline of Sherlock's ribs.

They were just deepening another kiss, when Sherlock felt something vibrate against his leg. Jim pulled away, to Sherlock's ever pouty annoyance. With an exasperated sigh, he reached into his trouser pocket.

"What-why are you checking your phone?" Sherlock's hands dropped down to rest on Jim's hips, as he frowned considering. "You never check your phone when we're-."

"John is on his way back," the criminal announced with finality, clicking through the message. Then he climbed off of Sherlock.

"You have people following him. _Of course_."

"Something like that," Jim answered, slipping his phone back in his pocket and straightening his suit. His small smirk told Sherlock he was missing something there as well; but the detective was fairly certain he could get it out of Jim, if-

"Well, there's nothing to say we couldn't finish this back at your's. You docked nearby?"

"Yes, well, I _had_ thought you might want to spend the rest of your birthday with me and I did get a delightful bottle of Bolly." Sherlock hummed in approval.

"Is it chilling now?" the detective asked in mock conspiratorial tones, as he picked up his coat, refusing to put it on as they didn't need anymore layers to take off when they got to Jim's ship. Jim turned to him, expression a cross between indignation and concern.

"Of course," he answered vaguely insulted that Sherlock would think him so uncouth. The detective rolled his eyes and grabbed the keys.

"You should have just told me to meet you there," Sherlock grumbled as he prodded the criminal out the ship door.

"Afraid not. I was out of food," Jim admitted, grinning. "Knew John would have some biscuits."

"So you had time to raid a holdings locker and chill champagne, but not pick up some groceries?"

"Please, which would you rather have: some food or a puzzle and bubbly? You're acting like there was even a question there," the criminal was peering up at the detective as he turned from the locked door. "Unless you're hungry?"

"Well maybe I am," Sherlock allowed as they made their way to Jim's ship. "Though not for food."


End file.
